Rendezvous with Death
by Rose and Psyche
Summary: Flying Officer Digory Kirke and his wingman are forced down in a fog during the Great War. One theory on how the four thrones might have been made…
1. Stormrunner

Stormrunner

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><p><em>But I've a rendezvous with Death<em>

_At midnight in some flaming town,_

_When Spring trips north again this year,_

_And I to my pledged word am true,_

_I shall not fail that rendezvous._

~ Private Alan Seeger, French Foreign Legion, Died 4 July 1916

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><p>~1918~<p>

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><p>Pilot Officer Edward Pevensie couldn't hear anything but the steady growling drone of the Sopwith Camel's rolling engine. The prop was making rainbow colors in the early morning sunlight and before him, the handful of instruments he had to go by danced in the plywood of the panel.<p>

Just to his right, another camel bounced on the wind waves, looking almost like a toy in the spreading rays that were just peaking over the French hills in the distance. Flying Officer Digory Kirke was flying that one. It was just the two of them and a handful of bombs on a mission to bomb the German aerodrome, twenty miles behind the German lines.

Edward glanced over his linen covered lower wing, past the vibrating guy wires and landing gear whose wheels were slowly rotating backwards in the turbulence. No-man's-land was beneath them, dead and charred, covered with coiling strands of barbed wire and pockmarked with water filled craters. Only one tree grew there, a once lordly oak, all the branches shot away by shell fire. No-man's-land gave way to the meandering German trenches, dark, like the exploits of a mole uncovered for all to see.

Edward remembered the British trenches well. He still dreamed about them, the mud to his knees, the little hole chocked up with boards that he'd tried to sleep in, the snow in winter…and the gas. He'd seen the gassed men, heads bent and eyes bandaged, each with his hands on the shoulders of the man in front; stumbling columns, going back behind the lines to be sent to a home they'd never see again.

Then the Royal Flying Corps, recently turned into the Royal Air Force, had come recruiting and saved his life. Six months ago, he'd been in the trenches, now he was the pilot of a high tech fighter, with three kills under his belt…not quite an ace, but almost.

The sky was misty ahead of them the sun's rays watery through layers of atmosphere. Edward glanced around, using the end of his scarf to wipe the fine spray of oil off his goggles; it didn't help, it was growing decidedly foggy. He sat there silent and puzzled, they'd been told that the weather would be perfect for their mission, the sky was going to be clear. Last night he'd seen the stars thrown across the sky like silver dust and known that the morning would be clear as glass. Why this fog?

Edward looked over at Digroy's plane and realized with a shock that it was growing hazy even such a short distance away, the sun shone golden on yellow fog that billowed up in cool mist beneath them, caught on lonely trees like shreds of blowing dandelion silk. The French hills were gone in grayness, the trenches had vanished, Flight Lieutenant Kirke's plane had been swallowed whole.

Edward had never flown in fog before and his cockpit only had five instruments some of which were notorious for being on the blink. He hadn't really learned instrument flying and the only ones he really used were the altimeter and the airspeed indicator. The altimeter, if it was right, was telling him that he was losing altitude rather quickly, but the altimeter hadn't been working since the day before yesterday.

The fog was dense and suffocating now, so thick that when he glanced behind himself, the tail of his plane looked misty. The ghost of a tree zoomed beneath him and he jerked up the stick, rising back into the mist. Time passed slowly, so slowly, yet his pocket watch raced in the little metal holder on the instrument panel. The grass rushed up almost before he saw it, gray-green in the mist, stretching in a little fading circle around him. A moment later, he'd set the camel down, the wheels bouncing madly over the imperfections in the field he'd landed on. The right wheel caught a boulder and his plane bucked in a ground loop before at last it came to a rest. With shaking hands, Edward cut the engine and leaned back to breathe a deep sigh of relief.

To his right, Edward heard to sputter of another engine, he recognized the note of it, the gravelly roar of a 130 hp British Clerget. A moment later there was silence as the other pilot cut his engine.

"Diggs?" Edward called, his voice sounding strange in the mist, "is that you?"

"Is that you, Ed, old chap?" a round Yorkshire drawl answered him. "You all right?"

"Perfectly, plane's in one piece."

"How much fuel have you got?"

"Half a tank."

"Same here."

"Look here, Diggs," Edward said, "I'm coming over. Keep talking, will you?"

Edward pulled himself out of the wicker seat and swung out of his cockpit, stepping gingerly on the fabric covered wing, to drop down on the grass. A moment later, he was walking towards Digory's voice. When he glanced back, his plane had already been swallowed by the mist and presently, as he walked, the ghostly form of Digory's plane solidified in the whiteness and Digory himself, sitting on the lower wing of his plane.

"Do you think we'll be able to take off again?" Edward asked, sitting down next to him.

"We landed all right," Digory said. "The tricky think will be keeping the eggs from going off."

"They didn't when we landed."

"Course, the Germans might just pick us up before we can get out," Digory added.

~o*o~

The fog lay on them heavily and they camped out under the wing of Digory's plane when it began to drizzle. Then the glow of the sun came again on the fog and slowly burned it away.

Edward realized almost with shock that he could see his own plane now, parked a couple of yards away, then the trees came out of the mist, standing like regiments of soldiers. Beyond the trees, mountains formed, purple mist in the rolling white.

"The mountains are awfully high around here," Edward said, half puzzled. "We must have gotten blown off course in the fog."

Digory did not reply, his face had taken on a strangely tight look and he stood up, bumping his head on the wing, to stare across great reaches of trees and fields, adrift in mist, to one tall hill, crowned by a lordly castle.

"We must be off course," Edward said again. "That must be the German outpost they were telling us about."

"Um…Edward…" Digory's trailed off. "You're going to think I'm daft, but I'm not."

"What's wrong?" Edward asked, glancing at him.

"We're not in France anymore."

Edward stared at him, "The wind wasn't so strong that we could have made it to Belgium. We weren't up that long."

"We're not in Belgium either…" Digory looked at him hard. "Would you believe it's possible to get out of one world into another?"

Edward didn't have time to respond. A crashing came from the underbrush and a moment later, a strange man came rushing towards them, a spear in his hands. Digory recognized him at once as a faun and glanced at Edward as the latter made a strange strangling noise.

"It's all right, old chap," Digory said as Edward sagged. "Pull yourself together."

"I think I believe you," Edward said weakly.

"Stand and be recognized!" the faun shouted.

"We're friends!" Digory called.

"Who are you and what are these strange devices that hunch so menacingly on the ground behind you? Are they friends as well?" the faun wondered.

"They are if we tell them to be," Digory said with a laugh, extending his hand. "I'm Digory Kirke and this is Edward Pevensie. You?"

"I am the faun Aetos," the Faun explained, clasping Digory's hand in an altogether friendly manner. "What brings you to these parts? By your dress you are travelers from a distant land."

"A very distant land," Digory said. "What is the castle on that hill?"

They all turned to look at the tall walls of stone that lay sprawling across the hilltop overlooking the distant sea.

"That is the house of the King, Cair Paravel, the jewel of the sea," Aetos said.

"Would you be so kind as to show us the way?" Digory asked.

"Gladly," Aetos said.

~o*o~

Edward followed in a kind of daze while Digory talked easily with Aetos. Creatures joined them, animals that talked and asked him his name. He couldn't help wondering if he might have actually crashed, was near death and hallucinating.

"Digory, pinch me."

Digory laughed and obliged. Nothing changed.

They climbed the winding road that lead up the ragged hill of the castle. The sea spread sparkling away to their right, endless and beautiful. The centaurs- yes, centaurs- at the gate saluted them and let them pass and before long, they were climbing the steps of the Throne Room.

It was strangely dark in there. The tall windows at the end of the hall had been shrouded by black curtains and in the gloom; they barely saw the throne and the hunched figure on it.

"That's the King," Aetos whispered. "Lately he's been short of temper. Tread lightly with him."

They went forward, just the two of them until they stood before him. The King was a young man, of their own age, not more than thirty. Yet his face was haggard and his eyes were strangely bright.

"Sire," Digory said, dropping on one knee, "Are you perhaps the son of King Frank?"

The King laughed a short laugh, "King Frank has been dead for a thousand years."

Digory recoiled, his face stricken. "A _thousand _years? You're joshing!"

"What do you want?" the King asked. "Out with it, then go. You tire me."

To their right, a shaft of light sliced across the throne room, lighting dust moats in the still air. The King squirmed, as if pained by it and they turned to see a magnificent centaur standing in the doorway.

"Sire, I beg you to hear me," the centaur said, coming to stand before the King. "The thrones must be built!"

"Out!" the king screamed, "Out! All of you! Out!"

"I think we'd better take his advice," Edward whispered.

"Out!" the king screamed again, throwing the pillow he had been sitting on. It struck the centaur full in the face. With a disgusted look, the centaur turned and left the hall. The others followed, closing the door behind them.

Digory reached up to grab the centaur's arm, "_How_ much time has passed since King Frank ruled?"

"Which King Frank?" the centaur asked, looking down at him.

"The first one, I suppose," Digory said.

"A thousand years." The centaur said dully, "and he's rolling his grave. Why did you desire to speak with the King?"

"I have a strange tie with this place," Digory said, his voice heavy, "But something tells me that he is the wrong chap to tell. Who are you, sir?"

"I am Stormrunner," the centaur said. "I am known as a prophet among my people, yet the King no longer sees me as such. All worlds draw to an end, but a noble death is a treasure no one is too poor to buy. I fear it is all I have left."

"What?" Digory cried, "Is this world already in its death throes? Am I to see it begin and end?"

"Who are you?" Stormrunner asked.

"He came in a flying contraption," The Faun Aetos offered as he stood against the wall.

"I am the boy who brought evil into this world," Digory said heavily.

"_You_ are Lord Digory?" Stormrunner exclaimed, seizing his hands. "Am I so honored?"

"I'm Digory, but not a lord." Digory said. "Tell me everything, why is Narnia in such dire straits?"

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: All rights, characters, places ect... have been stolen from C. S. Lewis and we're not going to give them back. :)<p>

What's the point of a disclaimer anyway? I've always wondered.

~Psyche


	2. The Thrones

The Thrones

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><p><em>I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.<em>

~ Sergeant Joyce Kilmer, The 'Fighting 69th' Infantry Regiment, Died July 30, 1918

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><p>"Narnia's days are numbered, but I do not believe these are her last."<p>

They were in Stormrunner's warm earthen house, shafts of sunlight slanting through the windows.

"The Witch, Jadis, has been amassing her people in the Western wilds, but the Tree of Protection still stands, though it grows old," Stormrunner continued. "Narnia's boarders are safe, but it is her heart that is rotting out. A great nation can never be taken; it can only fall by its own devising. Our people have grown complacent, our King is mad, our debts are high."

"What hope has Narnia, then?" Digory asked.

"I have received prophesies," Stormrunner said. "In the last ten years, I have received two. The first came to me on a summer day and I did not understand it, though I kept it in my heart."

"What was it?" Digory asked.

Stormrunner's face took on a strangely distant expression. "Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight, at the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more, when he bares his teeth, winter meets its death and when he shakes his name, we shall have spring again."

"Who's Aslan?" Edward asked.

"The King," Digory said quietly.

"The King we saw?" Edward asked incredulously.

"No," Digory said, "a King over all kings. He made this world. What was the other prophesy?"

"That was about five years ago," Stormrunner said. "When Adam's Flesh and Adam's bone sits at Cair Paravel in throne, the evil time will be over and done."

"Someone from my world, then," Digory said.

"Not just someone," Stormrunner said. "Four someones. A fortnight ago, Aslan told me to build four thrones; he said that when those four thrones were filled by two Sons of Adam and two Daughters of Eve, then it would be the end of Jadis' life.

"The King won't build the thrones," Stormrunner continued. "He wants nothing to do with it, as you saw. These last few months he has made a sudden change; once he was a true a Narnian as anyone could ask for. Now I begin to wonder if he is bewitched."

"Why don't you build them?" Edward asked suddenly.

"I am no craftsman," Stormrunner sighed, "and I dare not tell anyone who is. The Witch's supporters are everywhere. These are the times when brother is turned against brother, father against son, son against father. There is no longer anyone to trust. Hardly anyone believes in Aslan anymore, we, his followers, are only a handful now."

There was silence and the sparrows sang in the trees. Edward looked at Stormrunner, watching the light lay golden on his chestnut coat, his forelegs bent beneath him. The centaur was young, yet there was a level of aged wisdom about his face that no one could deny.

"I could do it," Edward said. "If they were wood. I can carve."

"He can!" Digory exclaimed. "I saw a desk he made once, gorgeous work. You can't go wrong with him."

"Would you, sir?" Stormrunner's eyes lit. "Would you carve four thrones for us?"

"I would be glad to." Edward said.

~o*o~

That afternoon, the Faun Aetos and his brothers were sent to guard the 'flying contraptions' from inquisitive meddlers. Stormrunner charged them to keep the contraptions a secret at all coast.

"Superstition runs deep in our days," he said, "they will be fearful of them, and perhaps even dangerous to you, Lord Digory."

That night, no one slept well.

Digory and Edward pulled off their heavy fleece lined flying boots and slept on the floor. Stormrunner paced the room deep in the darkness and the night hawks coursed the sky.

Edward woke to torches, frightened voices and shadows flickering across the walls.

"What's happened?" he moaned.

Digory had him by the arm, "Put your boots on and come."

A moment later, he was going out the door, borne along by running bodies. Frantic voices chilled the night and he saw the flash of torchlight on water, then the great stretch of a magnificent river, gliding silently into the night.

"What's happened?" he asked again, then he saw.

A great tree lay prone on the ground, the trunk splintered by axes, the branches crushed. Silvery leaves were scattered everywhere, filling the air with a strangely sweet scent. There were ropes tangled about the silver bark and an axe still quivered in the noble trunk.

Edward recognized it almost at once as an apple tree, but an old one, one that had stood tall and mighty with trunk so large two men could not have joined hands around it.

There was silence as they stood around it, and whispered words.

"The Tree of Protection," Stormrunner said, his voice heavy with sadness. "What happened?"

"The dryads of the west chopped it down around midnight," Aetos the faun said, his voice filled with bitterness.

"It's just a tree-" Edward began, then stopped when he saw tears streaming down Digory's face. "What is it?"

"Do you remember the great old apple tree growing in the yard of my house in London?" Digory asked. "You were six when I first planted it and you asked me if it would ever grow larger. It first bore fruit when you were eighteen-"

"The year I had typhoid," Edward said.

"Polly brought you over the first apple and you started getting better after that."

"Of course I remember."

"The seeds I planted were from this tree."

"I remember now," Edward said. "There was a bit of a stir when your mother got better from a terminal illness and you said it was because of an apple you gave her. I remember mother talking to Mrs. Plummer about it."

"That apple was from this tree," Digory said. "And the apple from which this tree grew was from another, far away in a garden at the top of the world."

"But why are they weeping?" Edward asked.

"Because this tree was all that stood between Narnia and an evil sorceress named Jadis." Digory said.

"We can't leave it here, they might come back and burn it," Stormrunner was speaking, "We'll drag it to my house and decide what to do."

They all took up the ropes that bound the trunk and slowly, painfully, they dragged the Tree back to Stormrunner's house. It was laid in the courtyard. Already the eastern sky was growing light, silver as the bark of the tree.

"Do not fear Jadis yet," Stormrunner said. "The breath of the Tree is still in the air."

They dispersed after that, still openly weeping and Stormrunner put his face in his hands. "Narnia draws nearer her doom every day."

"I planted that tree," Digory said quietly. "I remember I threw the apple towards the back of the river where it was soft and by the time the coronation of King Frank and Queen Helen was over it had grown into a tree."

Edward knelt down next to the tree and twisted off a splinter of wood, testing it in his fingers.

"Apple wood is beautiful," he said, half to himself. "The grain is like a golden river."

He glanced up and realized that they were both staring at him.

"Could you make the thrones from this tree?" Stormrunner asked, his voice tense.

"This wood is fresh and green," Edward said. "It would need at least six months of drying before I could use it, perhaps even a year."

"The black dwarves have a wood drying kiln," Stormrunner said. "Would that do?"

"That's even better," Edward said, standing up. "It's a more controlled environment and the wood would be less likely to crack."

"Then it will work?" Stormrunner asked.

"Of course."

~o*o~

They sent the trunk down river to a saw mill, telling no one what it was. There were saboteurs on the loose, Stormrunner said. It would be better if they didn't know. The wood was too precious to lose. They watched as the tree was turned down and cut into boards, then loaded on a cart to be stacked in the drying kiln. The dwarves charged top price for their services, but their work was worth it.

"The tree grows smaller as they work it," Stormrunner mourned, "Will there be enough?"

"We'll have to be careful with it, but I think there will be," Edward said. "We'll see once it's dried."

As they waited for the wood in the drying kiln, they took Stormrunner up to the place where they had landed their planes. No one had touched them, they were too fearful, and Stormrunner dragged them down to his house, where they sat in the yard.

"What do they do?" Stormrunner wondered, staring at the olive drab linen that covered the wings and fuselage.

"They fly," Digory said. "In our world a massive war is in progress. We are knights in that war, these are our steeds."

It was a joyful morning when at last they brought the seasoned boards back to Stormrunner's house and stacked them up, golden in the light of the sun. In the time Edward had waited for the wood, he had collected the tools of his trade from traveling salesmen. Bronze handled planes, saws, files, steel wool, sandpaper of every grade, carving knives and chisels so sharpened that Digory sliced his thumb and didn't even feel it.

Edward organized the wood, then, with a pencil he'd found in his pocket, stayed up all night arguing the shape of the thrones with Digory and Stormrunner.

At last Edward began to work and lost himself in it. Carful penciling turned into roughly cut shapes that he smoothed with files and plane, watching the grain. One mistake and all could be lost. He loved wood working with all his heart, he'd held carving knives since he was a baby and would sit on his father's lap, carving little figurines from bass wood. His mother would watch, worried, "those knives are so sharp, what if he cuts himself?"

"The sharper they are, the less likely they are to slip," his father would say.

It was true, he thought, the sharper the knife, the more control he had over the wood. His craftsmanship started to show itself as he made the first joints and fitted them seamlessly together, each perfect. Now the thrones stood in a row in the sunlight, yellow light on yellow wood.

"I don't think he even knows we're in here," Digory said one day as he and Stormrunner watched Edward work, kneeling in curling shavings.

The carvings would be hardest in all, Edward knew, but as he worked, he saw in the very grain of the wood the shapes that he would carve.

"Do you remember Michelangelo?" Edward asked. "He used to say that he wasn't creating statues, he was setting them free from the stone. That's what I feel like, the carvings are all ready there, I just have to find them."

He found them. Roses covered one, each petal laid in relief, each thorn looking as sharp as a cat's claws. On the next, he found himself carving a swan, wings raised, each feather looking as if it were ruffled by the wind. On the next, he untangled the complicated grain into a unicorn, feathered legs prancing.

"It's a symbol of wisdom," Stormrunner had said as he looked at it.

On the last he carved a lion, the mane heavy and beautiful, the eyes noble.

"It's strange how they came out," Edward said, as he sharpened his chisels on a strap. "I don't think I carved them at all."

"Of course you did," Digory said as Edward began to sand the thrones until his arm ached and the wood took on the sheen of pale brown velvet. "I'd like to see those people's faces when they finally see their thrones."

The linseed oil came last, painted on in great pools; the wood drank coat upon coat until it was dark and beautiful as running water.

It had taken four months to make the thrones. Edward had hardly slept and eaten less and at last they were done, sitting side by side in Stormrunner's tiny workshop.

~o*o~

It was night when Stormrunner roused his guests and hurried them into their clothes.

"I have not told you these past months that the people of these parts have been growing suspicious of you," Stormrunner whispered. "The faun Aetos has just brought me news that a mob is coming to lynch you, the same mob that chopped down the Tree of Protection. You must fly in your machines from this place."

"Where do we go?" Digory asked, digging through the closet for their flight helmets and goggles. "We still each have half a tank of fuel."

"Can you make it to Archenland over the Southern Mountains?" Stormrunner asked.

"Perhaps," Digory said. "We'll try."

The night was cold as they ran out to the Sopwith Camels. Across the Great River, they saw the reflection of torches flickering in the black water. They heard the shouts of the mob.

"Stormrunner," Digory said. "You're going to have to help us. Someone has to turn the propellers for the engines to start. Hop into your plane Edward!"

Edward obeyed, clambering into the cockpit to sit on the familiar wicker seat.

"Fuel on?" Digory called.

"Fuel on," Edward replied.

"Throttle set?"

"Throttle set."

"Contact!

"Contact!"

Digory reached up and grabbed the leading edge of the propeller, swinging down on it. The engine coughed, then roared into life. Stormrunner half reared, eyes wide at the sparks leaping from the exhaust pipes.

Digory ran to the side, signaling Edward forward. Edward waved once, then pulled out the throttle, bumping down the field. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the torches shining, trooping across the bridge to their side of the river, then he was airborne and banking to port.

"Are you quite sure you'll be all right?" Digory turned to Stormrunner.

"Quite sure!" Stormrunner said, "Now get into your machine!"

"Just pull on the prop like I did when I tell you," Digory called, clambering into his cockpit.

Above them, Edward circled, looking down. The mob was almost across the bridge now and with half a smile, Edward leveled off, skimming over the river towards the bridge. He reached up and squeezed the triggers on the machine guns mounted on the cowling. Bullets churned the water below the bridge and the mob stopped, awestruck as the biplane roared overhead.

As Edward came around again, he saw that Digory was bumping down the field, waved off by a galloping Stormrunner. A moment later, Digory was climbing to meet him.

South, then, Edward thought as he fell in formation behind Digory. Up here, he could see the sun glimmering on the Eastern Sea and Cair Paravel, just painted golden.

When he looked again they were gone. The misty hills of France surrounded them. They could just see the German trenches, the coiling barbed wire, the burnt out no-man's-land and their own lines.

Narnia was gone as suddenly as it had come.

* * *

><p>AN: There's one more chapter to go, just to tie up on the loose ends. Hope you've liked it so far. For more information on this subject, please read _'Under a Waning Moon'_ which you will find under my stories. :) It's short.

~Psyche


	3. Epilogue

Epilogue

* * *

><p><em>Take up our quarrel with the foe:<em>

_ To you from failing hands we throw_

_ The torch; be yours to hold it high._

_ If ye break faith with us who die_

_ We shall not sleep, though poppies grow_

_In Flanders fields._

~ Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, Canadian Expeditionary Force, Died January 28, 1918

* * *

><p>Edward lifted the nose of the Camel, peering over the fabric side at the spreading green of fields below. He glanced up to see Digory signaling him; then he saw.<p>

It was the German Aerodrome, spreading gray in the green, steel huts crouching among the delicate structures of German fighters. A moment later, the first puff of ack-ack exploded below them, sending showers of hot shrapnel spraying through the air.

Digory dove sharply and Edward followed, engine whining. The strip of planes grew closer at a blinding speed and Edward jerked up his stick, releasing two of his bombs. He felt the shock wave of the explosion as he climbed and heard the rattle of shrapnel hitting the varnished linen of his fuselage.

The ack-ack was growing more accurate and Edward banked, trying to shake it off, but it followed him as tenaciously as a wild dog. He dropped his last two bombs on the hanger, then climbed, trying to get out of the range of the anti-aircraft guns. Edward fell in behind Digory again, glancing around for enemy fighters, but only saw the rolling pall of smoke that billowed over the aerodrome and the licks of flames that fed it.

The smoke seemed to be following them, rolling heavy, sunlight on gray. It looked like a bank of thunder clouds, darkly menacing, stretching out fingers to seize them. Edward scanned the sky, he knew as well as Digory that the Germans would be up and after them in a moment.

The Fokker Dr.I triplane seemed to burst from the smoke like a red dragon. It was completely scarlet, gleaming in the sunlight, black crosses on white. The German's wingman was a more sensible olive drab, with only one red wing.

First Digory, than Edward banked to meet them, engines screaming as they tried to gain altitude. Edward glanced with worry at his wings, the fabric wrinkled by the huge amount of stress laid upon them. It was not unknown for a fighter's wings to fly off in mid battle.

The scarlet Fokker passed overhead, machine guns spitting fire. The bullets passed clear through the wood and fabric fuselage, but guy wires popped and coiled, whipping more holes in the olive drab wings. Edward jerked the stick, desperately trying to maneuver in the German's turn, but the third wing on the Fokker made it fantastically agile, hopelessly outclassing the Camel in maneuverability.

Again, the red Fokker was above him, lining him up for a shot. Bullets pounded the fuselage, splintering the mahogany struts, the Camel disintegrating around Edward. Through the smoke, Edward heard his engine choke and sputter. Thick oil coated the windshield, his goggles, everything, until all he could see was a brown haze.

Desperately, he tried to wipe it away, but it only made it worse, he thought of taking them off, but knew that he would be blinded by the oil streaming from the engine. He couldn't tell if he was up or down and had a vague feeling that the Camel was diving. He pulled on the stick, trying to keep the Camel from nosing into a spin and again he tried to wipe the oil away.

Vaguely now he could see shapes through his goggles, magnificent shapes like giants towering around him. Then there was a rending crash and the Camel stopped dead, throwing him forward against the instrument panel. He heard the propeller shatter as it struck something hard and desperately he cut the engine.

In the silence that followed, he heard the panicked twittering of birds and the soft sound of wind in the leaves of a tree. With shaking hands, he pulled off his goggles, blinking in the sudden light. The limb of a tree had gone clear through the cockpit, littering the plywood floor with shredded leaves. Cautiously, he sat up and the plane shook alarmingly as if it were still airborne, then he looked over the side and saw, past the ripped off lower wing, the ground forty feet below him.

It took him a moment to realize that he'd crash-landed in the crown of an oak tree.

~o*o~

He'd crashed behind the British lines and for some time the soldiers would hike up to stare at the fighter stuck in the tree, until at last the mechanics dismantled it for parts.

Digory had done rather better than Edward. He'd nearly shot off the tail of one of the Fokkers, but hadn't been able to do much to the red one. He finally had been forced down when his fuel had at last given out. He'd made a landing in a poppy field and watched as the red Fokker made a pass. He could have sworn the pilot saluted him before banking away, back towards the smoke of the German aerodrome.

"I can't believe he forced me down so quickly, Diggs," Edward said, "He's good anyway."

"Well, he's not the Red Baron for nothing," Digory said.

* * *

><p>The armistice was signed on the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918 in the railroad car that General Foch's had made his headquarters. It would go into effect at the eleventh hour. Twenty-two years later, the French would surrender to the Germans in the very same car after a year of grueling fighting climaxing at Dunkirk.<p>

The official peace was signed at Versailles and as the reflections of the dignitaries looked down in the hall of mirrors they signed the document, not of peace as they thought, but of war. They would learn the hard way that only God sets the boundaries of countries.

It was peace.

But the fighting did not stop. Wars raged from the day they were supposed to have ended. The Greeks and the Turks fought and when Smyrna burned in 1922 a hundred thousand Greeks and Armenians were massacred by the Turks. In Russia, millions vanished quietly into Siberian gulags never to be seen again.

Revolt followed revolt in the Middle East and in 1922 the Italians commenced on a ten year war to take Libya. Meanwhile, the Japanese moved into China and deaths of innocent civilians number in the millions. Ethiopians fought valiantly against the Italians with sticks and stones, but they too fell to the fascists. A million Indians fell to the clubs of their own countrymen when the British threw up their hands and finally withdrew, leaving India to herself. A civil war raged in Spain, Germans and Italians fought Mexicans and Russians in the field of battle, almost a miniature of what would happen later. A gruesome miniature.

Millions died in the years between the two great wars and there was not a single year of peace.

The War to end all wars, or the Peace to end all peace?

Yet in those years, in other parts of the world, war was mostly forgotten. The airplane suddenly became a new toy and all those old bi-winged veterans that had lasted the Great War met their deaths in the control of barnstorming pilots. Charles Lindberg flew the Atlantic in an airplane with no forward looking windows, only a periscope. A bomber named after the battle of Vimmy Ridge made the first flight from England to Australia. The world was slowly becoming smaller…but not small enough, Amilia Earhart went down in the Pacific and was never seen again. Airlines were starting up and in 1939 a flying boat could take seventeen people from England to Australia.

Over in the United States the Progressive Era slid grandly into a Great Depression and the Charleston was going out while the Jitterbug was coming in. It was a time when the average yearly income was only a thousand dollars and a new car cost eight hundred. The movie industry boomed; MGM burned down a whole lot to stage the burning of Atlanta in their four hour epic, _Gone with the Wind, _while the same year_ Wizard of Oz_ was a box office flop_. _

Edward Pevensie and Digory Kirke returned from their war not much worse for the wear. Digory had been injured in the leg earlier in the war and would always walk with a limp, but the tree, the daughter of the Tree of Protection that Digory had planted at his house in London fell in a storm and it was discovered that the root system had rotted away. Digory wired Edward: "Tree has fallen, good chance Narnia is down too. Can you make something from it? Reply paid."

The timber was put away in an attic in Digory's house in the Lake's District and it wasn't until the '20's that Edward traveled there to make it into something. Peter was only two at the time and only remembered as in a dream climbing over the boards and watching as his father joined the sides of the Wardrobe. The knobs, cast in the shape of a lion's head had to be sent away for and Digory suggested carving a flying horse on the panels and Edward obliged, though he always thought that his best carvings were on that _other_ tree long ago.

They rarely saw each other after that.

Edward had gone back to school and was now at work as a doctor at Charing Cross Hospital and Digory traveled the world, immersing himself in the cultures and literature of other peoples.

He saw Venice beneath a marbled sky; he marveled at Michelangelo's David, he was in India during its 'bloodless' struggles for independence, he drank tea with a Bedouin in the Arabian Desert, he saw the place where Gordon fell in Khartoum. It was the battlefields that struck the deepest, the poppies on Flanders's Field that danced over the sleeping dead, Vimmy Ridge, Verdun, the white crosses stretching in dizzying symmetry, each symbolizing a man who had lived and died.

Edward sent him a letter in the mid '20's, asking him what he was searching for and Digory never replied. He couldn't reply, he didn't know. He was searching for answers but only seemed to find more questions. Somewhere in the back of his mind, as he sat on the banks of the Nar River, he thought of that other place, the world of which he had only had a few fleeting glimpses. Was he searching for that? He hardly knew.

Digory returned to England in 1929, worn and old, just in time to attend his mother's funeral. She had spent her last days in the house in London and as Digory followed his father into the shadowy front hall, the familiar smell of galoshes and old carpets sparked ancient and beautiful memories. A shaft of light from a misty window caught the corner of an old black book lying on a table and Digory reached out to pick it up.

These pages thumbed and worn by his father's hands, these words his mother's voice had said by candle light on winter nights; all these years it had been here waiting until the time had come that he should pick it up and see with widening eyes and quickening heart the answers to the questions of his soul.

He had searched the world with his questions, only to find that man has no answers, only God.

In the following years, Digory almost never left the study of the world's literatures, first at Magdalen College at Oxford, then Magdalene College, Cambridge. He taught new students, opening their eyes in a whole new way to the workings of the world.

But Germany, despite the Treaty of Versailles and the Washington Naval Treaty, was building up her air force and it was hinted that the largest battleship in the world was going to be launched. Then Von Hindenburg, the last holdout of sanity, died mysteriously and Adolf Hitler, the man who had finished the Great War a corporal, stepped into place. Slowly, inevitably, Germany began to annex her 'lost' territories of Austria and Czechoslovakia and Russia joined her and invaded Finland. But Poland was the last straw.

It was August of 1939 that Edward took up his pen to write, addressing his letter to the Lakes District where Digory was spending his summer translating Virgil and Horace.

"Hope this letter finds you well, old chap...the government has been organizing the evacuation of children out of the cities as their fairly sure that if there is war, London is going to be bombed and by more than just Zeppelins…They suggest we send our children to people we know…I was wondering if you wouldn't mind? Keep in mind there are four of them. Two boys, two girls… they're all well behaved, especially Susan, though you may find Edmund a bit of a trial…Please write soon."

Digory hadn't bothered to write, he'd sent a wire the same day he got the letter, "send them along as soon as possible."

They would enjoy his old house, he thought, the house built by his great uncle and filled with mounted lions, jade Buddhas and poison darts from Africa, he could tell them about his uncle's tea plantations in India and folktales from Russia and show them the petal-like tea set from China. He wasn't really old, at least not as old as he thought he was, but he had to admit that the day they arrived in the auto car and came up the steps to meet him, his heart was in his mouth in anticipation.

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><p><em>We search the world for truth; we cull<em>

_The good, the pure, the beautiful,_

_From graven stone and written scroll._

_And all old flower-fields of the soul;_

_And, weary seekers of the best,_

_We come back laden from the quest,_

_To find that all the sages said_

_Is in the Book our mothers read._

~ John Greenleaf Whittier

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><p>The Beginning…<p>

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><p>AN: Sorry I deleted this chapter this morning, but it just wasn't finished. :)

It really was possible for biplanes to crash into trees and get stuck there. Things happened during the Great War, really peculiar things. A British pilot accidentally landed on an airship he was trying to shoot down and earlier on, before the fighters were armed with machine guns, the German and allied pilots would wave to each other when they flew past. That all ended when they started carrying rifles...and bricks...a German pilot managed to knock a French plane out of the sky by throwing bricks at it.

Anyway, hope you've enjoyed it.

~Psyche

PS: For some reason I was thinking of_ I See the Light _from _Tangled_ while I was writing this.


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